


Queer Eye for That Weird Tall Guy

by stellarbisexual



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, F/M, M/M, Stanlon and Benverly are peripheral, queer eye AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:19:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarbisexual/pseuds/stellarbisexual





	Queer Eye for That Weird Tall Guy

“Who’s our next victim, Haystack?” Mike calls over his shoulder from the driver’s seat.

“One…” Ben flips through his folder of blueprints and invoices with strong, deft fingers until he finds his prize.  “...Richie Tozier! Richie is thirty-three, six-foot-four, a hundred and seventy-five pounds--”

“He’ll be easy to dress,” Eddie muses with a purse of his lips before wrapping said lips around the straw of his iced coffee.

“Lives in Portland, Maine in his uncle’s basement--that should be interesting--and is a voice actor.”

Bill leans forward to look at Ben, raising his eyebrows.  “So, he d-d-does, like, cuh-cartoons and s-stuff?”

Ben’s eyes scroll down the page.  “Yeah, looks like it. Cartoons, video games, commercials--does pretty well for himself, too.  He was nominated by his best friend, Beverly…” Ben flips to the next page and quickly gets distracted.  “...who said…”

“Oh my  _ God _ , you’re incorrigible, Haystack,” Stan says only half-affectionately, swiping the pages from Ben’s hands--the top of which includes a photo of Beverly, a vivacious-looking redhead.  Stan rolls his eyes, finding where Ben left off before he fell in love. “According to Richie’s best friend Beverly, Richie’s career’s right on track but the rest of his life is decidedly not.”

*

Beverly sits on the chic grey couch in her living room, a bright, airy space filled with fabric swatches and about four or five dress form stands, some with pieces in progress.  She smiles kindly at one of the producers. “Do I look right into the camera, or…?”

“You can look at me, actually.”

“Okay.  So, Richie is a bisexual disaster.  He’s one of the smartest, funniest, most creative people I know, but in a lot of ways, he refuses to grow up.  He’s lived in the same basement apartment since we graduated college, and it looks pretty much exactly like his dorm room did--scotch-taped band and movie posters all over the walls, no frames.  No real food in the kitchen. He still sleeps on a futon. And his wardrobe hasn’t changed, either. He’s a great-looking guy, too, and charming as hell with a big heart, but he just doesn’t present well, and as successful as he’s been in his career, I think that still holds him back.  It’s definitely kept his love life pretty stagnant for years now.” Bev looks at her lap, picking at one of her cuticles. “I don’t know if it’s intentional, if he’s doing it so he can keep people at arm’s length… And I don’t want him to give up who he is; I just think he needs to grow up a little.  Embrace his age and his experience.”

*

“So anyway,” Richie says, shoving a big bite of blueberry waffle into his mouth, “fifth callback went well, but who the hell knows?  The last two times I thought I’d for sure gotten it ended with them calling me saying, ‘Can you come in again?’” He puts on a whiny, smarmy voice that makes Bev choke a little on her mimosa.  “‘We need just one more circle jerk with all the finalists before we can make a fully informed decision.’ Such bullshit.” He makes a sudden gross, gurgly noise that tears Bev’s eyes away from the door.  

She rests a hand on his forearm with a smirk, making sure he can still breathe.  “You okay, bud?”

Richie chews what remains in his mouth and swallows it, finally.  Bev shakes her head with an amused smile, her nose slightly wrinkled.  “Hey, Bevvie?”

“Whattie?”

“How come you keep looking at the door?  You expecting somebody?”

Just then, Bev’s eyes go wide, a group of five men bursting into the cozy cafe, followed by a crew of three, with cameras.  She hurriedly wipes her mouth with her napkin.

Richie’s head swings around at the commotion.  He smiles at the sight, then shoots her a playful glare.  “What did you do, Marsh?”

Before Bev can defend or explain herself, the Fab Five surrounds their tiny brunch table on all sides.  

“Richie Tozier?” the one with the curly hair asks.  Another one, who looks kind of like a lumberjack, extends a gentlemanly hand to Beverly, totally focused on her.

“Yeah…”  Richie eyes them, then smiles wide at Beverly.  “Did you go ahead and order me five strippers? It’s too early for my birthday.”   The guys laugh.  

“‘Fraid not,” Curly says.  “We have strict orders from Beverly for you to come with us and get your life together.”

Richie flashes his eyes at Bev before taking in the rest of the group more fully, enjoying a long pause on the tiny one standing quietly at the edge of the group, all big brown eyes and soft-looking hair, hands stuffed into the back pockets of his tight jeans.  Richie pouts directly at him. “Aw, that’s too bad; I was really hoping for a Sunday lapdance.” The tiny one makes an offended face, though he’s clearly biting back a smile.

Curly drags his focus away with a sharp tug to his elbow.  “Come on, Stretch. Time for a change.”

The one dangling car keys from his hand leads the way, singing a riff of “Man in the Mirror” as the group rushes back through the front door, Richie in tow, and cameras on their heels.

“Have fun, weirdo!” Bev shouts after him.

*

“Okay, first of all…”  Richie stops on a dime in the middle of his kitchen and is immediately surrounded by these five strangers.  “What the hell? Why are you all unfairly hot?”

Mike ducks his head.  “That’s very sweet of you.”

Richie narrows his eyes at him.  “Remind me again, who’s who? Wait--no.  Don’t do that. I’m not going to remember.  Let me just give you all nicknames.”

“This should be interesting,” Stan smiles tightly.

“Seriously?” Eddie scoffs.  “You can’t remember five names?  You’re more of a disaster than I realized.”

Richie points at Bill, who freezes up.  “Big Red.”

“Oh, th-th-thank God.”

Then Ben.  “Papa Bear.”

Ben looks pleased, thick arms crossed over his chest.

“Sunshine,” Richie intones, gesturing grandly to Stan.  Stan looks oddly comfortable with the name--until Richie breezily clarifies: “It’s ironic, obviously.”

Mike stops Richie before he can anoint him.  “Let me guess: Hot Chocolate.”

“...I  _ was _  just gonna call you Pecs, but no arguments here: Hot Chocolate.”

Mike rolls his eyes through a smile.  “It’s kind of racist.”

“Pecs it is.”  Richie slides dramatically across the floor so he’s standing right in front of Eddie, the tiny one, the fashion-oriented one.  “And last but not least…”

Eddie doesn’t meet his eyes, instead critically taking in the pattern of his overshirt and fingering the material.  “Make it about my height and I’ll burn everything in your closet.”

Richie licks his lips.  “Fireball.”

*

Within thirty minutes, the five have made themselves right at home in Richie’s apartment--meaning, they’ve taken it upon themselves to tear it apart completely.  

Ben holds a comforting arm around his shoulders.  “So I know you’re a freelancer and your income situation is probably fairly unpredictable.  I’m not asking you to  _ leave _  this apartment, though I do think a more extreme change would do you good.  But I think it’ll make a huge difference in how you feel about yourself if I make this place more of a home for you.”

Eddie darts past, a bundle of Hawaiian shirts cradled in his arms.  “Planning on hosting a weekly luau?” he tosses at Richie with a smile.

“Only if you promise to do the hula for me, Fireball.”  Richie waggles his brows.

Ben gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze and speaks kindly.  “How come you haven’t upgraded your decor to something a little more age-appropriate?”

Richie’s shoulders rise up to his ears.  “I just… never really think about it, I guess.”

“I understand.  You have more important things you’re concerned about,” Ben says, gesturing to the corner of his room where his recording equipment is.  “A lot of care was clearly put into setting this up and maintaining it.” Richie shrugs again. “Tell you what: I’m going to worry about the rest of your space for the time being--and I’ll even give your home studio an upgrade while I’m at it.”  Before Ben can finish with a, “Whaddaya say?” Richie’s throwing his arms around his middle and cuddling him.

Mike enters with a perplexed expression.  “Where’s all your food, dude? All I could find in your kitchen was this.”  He holds up a half-eaten loaf of bread and a can of funfetti frosting.

“Funfetti sandwiches, my favorite,” Stan says, entering and winking at Mike.  He motions for Richie to follow him into the bathroom just off his bedroom, where Eddie’s still rifling through his closet.  Stan waves a hand over his sink. “I’m baffled. How can you have no product in here?  _ You have curly hair. _ ”

“My mama always said, ‘Don’t mess with what the good Lord gave ya.’”

“‘Mess’ is right.  May I?” Stan reaches for either side of his head.  Richie shrugs, nodding, and Stan starts combing his fingers through, trying to figure out what kind of length he’s working with--and if it’s at all consistent.  “Lucky for you, I’m an expert in curly hair care.”

“Richie,” Eddie calls from behind them.  He’s holding an old, threadbare jean jacket up to his torso with a mishmash of patches all over it.  “Care to explain?”

“ _ No _ ,” Richie pleads, rushing out of Stan’s grasp to grab for the jacket.  “Not Matilda! She’s been with me since high school.” He unfurls one of the sleeves, which is cuffed over, showing Eddie a bisexual pride flag patch.  “Aren’t you guys only supposed to do this to straight dudes? Don’t hurt one of your own.”

“Shitty fashion doesn’t discriminate,” Eddie says firmly.  “And neither do we.”

One of the producers gently reminds Eddie to ease up on the profanity.

“Sorry, let’s take that again: terrible fashion doesn’t discriminate.”  Richie pouts dramatically and whines like a puppy, holding the jacket close to his chest.  “Okay,” Eddie relents. “You can keep that one.”

*

“R-Richie’s pro-probably the hardest guy to figure out that w-we’ve had this s-s-season.”  Bill looks right into the camera as he perches on a chair in the Fab Five loft. “He’s s-super comfortable talking with p-p-p-people, and he has a lot going for him.  B-but he clearly isn’t t-taking care of himself, his space, or his p-personal life--everything is going into his work. I suh-suspect he has some suh-serious s-self esteem issues.”  Bill blows out a big breath and laughs, blushing once the cameraman cuts. “That last sentence was hard for me.”

*

Eddie’s already elbows-deep in a bin of accessories when Richie arrives at the vintage store to meet him.  He looks up and smiles brightly, fixing the bright blue rolled up bandana that’s keeping his hair out of his face.  “Hi, Richie.”

Richie slaps a hand over his heart.  “Shit. I forgot how goddamn cute you are, Fireball.”

“No time for flirting today,” Eddie says breathlessly, slipping a few colorful bangles over his wrists and shaking them playfully.  “We have too much to do.” He grabs Richie by the front of his tee and starts dragging him toward a rack of button-down shirts.

“‘No time for flirting,’ he said as he proceeded to manhandle me in a public place.”  Eddie lets go of Richie’s shirt and smooths his palm over it to flatten out the wrinkles he’s left.  Richie smiles fondly down at him, seizing his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “So, what’ll I have the pleasure of you getting me into today?”

Eddie’s eyes dart quickly toward the cameras, making sure they’re in place.  “Honestly? Anything but what you’re wearing.”

Richie deflates--dramatically.  

“No, no,” Eddie says, folding his hands around his shoulders.  “Hear me out. Your body type is  _ amazing _  for clothes.  You’re basically built like an underwear model, so you can wear anything you want.”

At that, Richie perks up, posing with one hand on his head and the other on his hip, bouncing in place.

“But no one would know it,” Eddie continues, flicking the bottom of his lime green tie-dye shirt, “because you dress like it’s 1991 and you’re auditioning for Bell Biv DeVoe.”

Richie’s hands drop back to his sides.

“Don’t get me wrong: I love that you’re not afraid of color and you’re not afraid to take risks.  But there are ways of doing that that are going to be more flattering for your features. I promise, you don’t have to give up your personality to look good.”

Eddie keeps his word with the very first outfit he puts Richie in: a pair of skinny jeans, a nice worn belt, and a navy short-sleeved button-down with tiny cherry coke bottles printed all over it.  Richie does a playful spin, and Eddie comes forward immediately to fix his collar.

“See?  The pattern on this is kind of wacky, but it’s small enough that it isn’t distracting.”  Eddie’s thumbs brush up against the sensitive skin of Richie’s neck, making him flush. “And the base color is right in your wheelhouse for your skin tone.”

After cycling through a few more business casual and casual options, Eddie hands Richie a grey three-piece suit and an eggplant button-down with tiny white pinprick polkadots.  Richie raises an eyebrow.

“Just--indulge me, please,” Eddie says, physically turning him away and pushing him in the direction of the dressing room.  

A couple of minutes later, Richie emerges barefoot in the button down, slacks, and vest, but still carrying the suit jacket in one of his hands, and Eddie makes a sound that’s somewhere between a whine and a groan.  The cameraman stifles a laugh. Eddie shoots a look at one of the producers and whispers, “Please edit that out” before darting forward to take the jacket from Richie. “Here, let me.” He holds it open, allowing Richie to slip his long arms into the sleeves, then turns him back to fix both collars.  Eddie tops it off with a nice pair of shoes and a matching eggplant pocket square, and takes a few steps back to look Richie over. He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the outfit--but he’s definitely enjoying the look on Eddie’s face  _ about _  the outfit.  “I thought it would need more tailoring, but this looks…really,  _ really _  good on you, Richie.”

Richie tucks his hands into the pockets of the slacks and smiles bashfully.  “All due respect, Eds, I think you’ve dressed me in what  _ you _  like to see on me.”

Eddie bites back a smile.  “You’re not wrong.”

“Mm… Daddy like?” Richie says, shimmying his shoulders a little.

“Okay, you’ve ruined it.”

*

“Beverly was right,” Eddie chuckles.  “Richie’s a hot fucking mess.”

One of the producers sighs.  “Again.”

Eddie nods, shifting in his chair.  “Richie’s a mess.” His eyes shift away from the camera, getting lost for a moment.  He smiles softly. “...But he’s also kind of sweet.”

*

“So, what’s Eddie’s deal?” is the first thing out of Richie’s mouth while Stan’s deep conditioning his hair.  

Stan hums.  “Oh. Totally overbearing mother, so he has these little outbursts sometimes, but he always apologizes and never really means it.”

“Uh,” Richie smiles wide, doing his best to look at Stan’s face with his head tipped back over the opening in the barber shop sink.  “ _ That’s _  good to know, but I just meant… is he, uh, single?”

Stan shakes his head with a chuckle before he whips out the spray nozzle and starts rinsing RIchie’s hair, nodding toward the cameras on either side of them.  “You really want to be talking about this right now?”

“Why not?  I have nothing to hide.”  Richie taps one of his big feet thoughtfully against the linoleum floor.  “ _ Ohh _ , unless you’re afraid  _ you’ll _  say something incriminating about you and Pecs,” he stage whispers.

“Who, Mike?”  Stan stares dutifully at the water as it rinses through.  “What are you talking about?”

Richie waves a dismissive hand at the cameras, still pointed at them and still very much rolling.  “That was almost convincing, Sunshine. I  _ get _  it.  He fine as hell.”

“Um…”  Stan’s voice is a little shaky as he pushes a towel through Richie’s wet hair and wraps it loosely around his neck.  He eyes the cameras. “No comment. But yes, Eddie is single.”

Richie raises both fists high in the air with a triumphant shout that startles the other patrons getting their hair cut and beards trimmed.  

Stan wraps his hands around Richie’s fists.  “Please don’t. There are people here holding scissors in very close proximity to other people’s heads.  Now, let’s cut that hair and talk about Aquaphor for your lips.”

*

“Okay, there’s a st-st-step up.”  Bill gently ushers Richie through a pair of double glass doors blindfolded.  

“Big Red, please warn me if you’re surprising me with one of my exes Maury-style.  I don’t think I could handle it.”

“J-just a few more seconds.”

“ _ That’s what she sa… _ ”  Richie stops when Bill whips off the blindfold, revealing a large dance studio.  “Uh… I know you haven’t yet had the privilege of seeing it, but I’ll have you know I’m a phenomenal dancer.  No lessons required. Trust me.”

“That’s n-n-not why I b-brought you here.  Th-this is about cuh-cuh-connecting.” Bill glances behind him, the cameras revealing Eddie, standing with his hands in his back pockets and a smile on his face.

“Hi, Richie.”  He has a delayed reaction to Richie’s tidied appearance.  “Oh, wow.” He immediately comes forward, eyes journeying along the halo of curls on Richie’s head.  “Your hair looks great.”

Richie ducks down, imploring.  “Touch it, it’s deep-conditioned.”

“I can see that,” Eddie says with a laugh--but he reaches up with both hands, fingering the soft ends of Richie’s hair.  They lock eyes, and Eddie clears his throat, extracting his hands and stuffing them back into his pockets. “Stanley did good.”

“Wh-what we’re here for today is puh-pretty s-s-simple.  T-Tom is going to t-teach you how to wuh-wuh-waltz.”

Bill steps back, allowing the dance instructor Tom to take over, and guides the camera crew to the other side of the room to give Richie and Eddie some privacy and get some wider shots.  

The steps are fairly simple and, true to his word, Richie is pretty adept, so they’re off and running quickly, turning in slow boxes all around the floor.  

Bill gives the camera a conspiratorial look as they observe the pair from across the room.  “I get where Ruh-Richie’s coming from. I had suh-serious s-self esteem issues for a long time--be-because of this,” he gestures at his mouth.  “It muh-makes it hard to oh-open yourself up to people, let them in. This is all about intimacy. Ruh-Richie has to hold E-Eddie, look him in the eye.  He c-c-can’t hide behind a cuh-character. And he cuh-clearly likes Eddie, so.” Bill watches them. “...They’re cute together, aren’t they?”

One of the cameramen peels off to get closer shots of the pair as they dance.  As he approaches, they’re stopped, Eddie folded over and laughing hysterically at something Richie’s just said.  He turns to the camera with an apology then quickly slips back into Richie’s embrace, clasping his hand. The camera follows them as they make their way around the floor again.

Richie watches Eddie’s face, taking in his features more closely.  “ _ Jesus _ , you have an adorable laugh.  That just made my week.”

Eddie blushes, his eyes darting to the camera lens, silently imploring the episode’s future editors to be heavy-handed in cutting this part.  

“Am I not allowed to flirt while we’re being filmed?” Richie asks, glancing briefly over his shoulder as they dance.

“Um,” Eddie starts, eyes lowering to their feet for a moment.  His brow furrows as he shakes his head. “No…”

“ _ Good _ , ‘cause I’m enjoying it way too much.”  Richie starts singing in a quiet falsetto.  “ _ I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream… _ ”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans, laughing.  

“What?  No  _ Sleeping Beauty _ ?  I can totally bust out ‘A Whole New World’ if you prefer.”  Richie takes a deep breath, readying himself.

Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth.  “You don’t have to go so hard, Richie.”

Richie presses a kiss to Eddie’s palm as he removes his hand from his face, and replaces it on his own shoulder.  He looks intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“You don’t have to make jokes all the time.  You’re enough without them.”

Richie’s mouth twists up, his eyes leaving Eddie for the first time since they started dancing.  

“If you like someone,” Eddie insists, “just look them straight in the eye and say…”  He angles his head to force eye contact with Richie. “‘Richie, I like you.’”

Richie swallows, keeping his eyes on Eddie’s.  “Richie, I like you.”

Eddie gives him a long-suffering sigh and a smack on the shoulder, though he’s still smiling.

Richie tilts his head in consideration, still tasting the words on his tongue.  “Nah, that’s way too transparent.”

The cameraman departs, popping outside to get some exteriors and establishing shots of the studio.  

“Well,” Eddie starts, slotting their fingers more tightly together.  “Transparent is really sexy. At least to me.”

Richie’s eyes widen.  “Then I’ll be transparent as a motherfucker, Eds.”

*

Richie watches with his chin literally in his hands as Mike moves gracefully through the kitchen, cutting up vegetables and explaining simple dishes to him.  “I don’t think you’d really be into baking, to be honest--too much measuring and restrictions--but cooking should be right up your alley. It’s creative, and you can get dirty.”

“Talk to me more about getting dirty, Pecs,” Richie sighs.

Mike chuckles, blushing hard.  “The other guys warned me you’d be a flirt.”  He slips a folded hand towel off of its resting place on his shoulder and flicks it playfully at Richie.

“But you’re so dreamy.  You’ve gotta be used to it.”  Richie reaches for the cutting board, slipping a couple of sliced peppers into his mouth.  “If Stan weren’t so obviously into you, I would have proposed by now.”

Mike’s hands slow, his expression going softer.  “Um.” He bites his lip. “You think he’s into me?”  The cameras move in closer, horribly intrigued. Mike raises his eyes, alarmed.  “Could you not roll on this? It’s private.”

The cameramen obediently depart, and Richie spares them an impressed glance, righting his glasses on his face.  “Has neither of you made a move yet?”

A ghost of a smile plays across Mike’s handsome face.  He raises his shoulders in a shy shrug. “I dunno. We’re colleagues.  It’s a little…”

“ _ Fuck that. _ ”  Richie leans in, stealing a sauteed mushroom.  “I know I’m about as subtle as a parade, but life is too goddamn short.  Go for it.”

Mike sighs thoughtfully, resuming work on his stir-fry.  He raises an eyebrow. “You planning on taking your own advice?”

“Touché,” Richie says, pronouncing it like  _ douche _ .  “The Fab Five’s adoring public will just have to wait and see, won’t they, Michael?”

*

Beverly holds her hands firmly over Richie’s eyes as the group of seven makes their way into his new and improved apartment, followed by the camera guys close on their heels.

Ben walks in ahead of them, his voice booming and proud.  “Richie, you ready to see your place?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Papa Bear.”

“Beverly,” Ben smiles at her.  “Would you do the honors?”

“ _ Ta da _ ,” Beverly sings, releasing her hands from Richie’s eyes with a flourish.  

Richie’s jaw drops as he does a full three-hundred and sixty-degree spin, taking in all the beautiful--and functional--changes made to his space.  His hands fly to his mouth when his eyes land on his recording corner where his old setup used to be, replaced by a fully functioning soundbooth. He actually starts to tear up.  “Nevermind, I divorce the rest of you. Ben built me a fucking  _ soundbooth _ !”  He rushes over to run his hands over its foamy exterior.  

“I know you care about your work,” Ben says, following and urging him to take a look at the bedroom.  “But frankly, I care more about you getting a good night’s sleep.”

Richie gasps as he enters the bedroom.  His futon has been replaced with a gorgeous queen-size bed.

“Every grown man deserves a good mattress,” Ben explains, encouraging Richie wordlessly to test out the bed--which he does, by sitting his ass down and bouncing on the mattress.  “I know you have back problems because you’re so tall, so this should help at least a little bit.”

“ _ And  _ any guests you invite over can sleep more comfortably, too,” Stan points out, glancing briefly at Eddie, who narrows his eyes.

“This is incredible, Benny, thank you.”  Richie envelops him in a tight hug.

Bill corners Richie to walk him through a networking event he has, Stan and Eddie standing close by to check in on his look for the night.  Ben, meanwhile, has been whisked back into the living room by Beverly, who’s eagerly asking questions about all the changes he’s made to Richie’s place.  

“L-l-let’s go check out the buh-backyard,” Bill says, tugging Stan’s elbow with a wink.  Stan gets the hint, leaving Eddie and Richie in the bedroom.

“I have something for you,” Eddie says, reaching into his jacket pocket.  “For tonight.”

Richie raises an eyebrow, then lets out a little  _ oh _  when Eddie reveals an eyeglasses case.

Eddie pulls out a pair of sleek new frames.  “Sorry we couldn’t get these the other day; they needed a while to fill your prescription.”  He unfolds the arms and holds them up to Richie’s face. “They fit your face better than the ones you’re wearing, so you shouldn’t have to, y’know…”  Eddie mimes Richie pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.

Richie obediently makes the switch, blinking as he adjusts to the new pair.  He strides over to the full-length mirror on the wall. “Bitchin.’” He smiles softly.  They’re totally alone, the camera crew shooting b-roll with the rest of the guys inside.  “Thanks, Eds.”

“My pleasure.”  Eddie smiles back, then ducks his head, shyly shaking it at himself as he shuffles back into the living room with the others.  

“Welp,” Mike says, doing one last check of Richie’s cabinets to ensure his kitchen’s fully stocked, “We’ve gotta head out.  But good luck tonight, man. We’ll be watching you!”

Richie pulls at his shirt collar, making a face.  The guys all wish him luck, Bev heading out with them after giving him a big hug, Eddie bringing up the rear.  Richie reaches out, grabbing his hand just before he hits the threshold. “Hey. Before you go.” Richie hesitates.  “...What should I wear tonight?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, not unkindly.  “That’s not the point of all this. The point is for you to find a comfortable medium between what you like and what I recommended.”

“Okay,” Richie starts impatiently, stepping closer, still holding onto the ends of Eddie’s fingers.  “But if you were me, what would you wear tonight?”

Eddie takes a deep breath, color rising to his cheeks.  “Um.” He doesn’t try to pull his fingers from Richie’s grip.  “The dark red sweater, definitely.” Richie nods, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something else--but he doesn’t.  Eddie squeezes his hand, rises up on his toes, and kisses Richie on the cheek. “Good luck tonight. We’ll be cheering you on.”

Richie whines and makes grabby hands at him as he slips through the door.

*

“Alright, how’s our boy doing?”  Mike winds around the furniture to plop onto the couch next to Stan, handing him a glass of his favorite pinot noir.

The rest are sprawled all over the sectional, eyes on the big flat screen TV at the Fab Five loft, camera guys poised for action on either side.

“We’re in the grooming phase,” Stan says, a little nervously.

“I see product,” Mike says, watching as Richie squints at the little bottle of styling cream.  “That’s a good sign.” He gives Stan a reassuring pat on his thigh.

Then the five--plus Beverly--watch as Richie proceeds to put way too much product in his hair.

“ _ Shit.  Motherfucking… singing cocks on a swing set. _ ”

The guys blink from the impact of Richie’s profanity, then turn to look at her, completely in sync.

She shrugs.  “It’s one of his tongue twisters.  He uses them to warm up his voice.”

“And express rage?” Ben smiles.  “They’ll have to bleep that out, won’t they?”

“Ask our eh-eh-expert.  Eddie?”

Eddie flips Bill the bird without taking his eyes off the TV.

“We’ll have to pixelate _that_ out,” one of the producers sighs from the kitchen counter, where he’s pouring himself a drink.

“Sorry,” Eddie mutters, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.  His eyes go wide and bright as Richie moves toward his closet to pick out an outfit for the night.  “Come on, Rich. You can do this.” He holds his hands over his mouth. “Just--don’t go for the Vanilla Ice pants,  _ please _ .”

On screen, Richie swipes his hands over his face, looking very stressed out--until he spots a burgundy sliver in the corner of his closet.  He reaches for it immediately.

“Yes, good, Richie.  Good,” Eddie whispers.

Richie makes the sweater dance on its hanger.  “ _ Eddie Spaghetti says I look good in red-die _ ,” he sings under his breath, then slips his shirt off to make the switch.

Eddie blushes hard, and the others ruffle his hair and clap him on the back.  

“Somebody’s got a crush,” Ben chuckles.

Beverly gives Eddie a long, fond look.  “Hey, isn’t that one of Richie’s shirts?”

Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin, Richie’s old graphic tee nearly billowing around his lean frame.  He straightens it, looking down at the mug shots of the Wet Bandits from  _ Home Alone _  adorning the front.  “I’m wearing it ironically.  It works.”

They all turn their attention back to the TV, watching as Richie gives himself a final look in the full-length mirror.  

“He looks great,” Stan says firmly.

“Richie really is a sweet guy.”  Mike takes a swig from his beer.

“Yeah,” Ben says, refilling Beverly’s glass.  “He’s a catch. He’s not going to stay single for long.”

Eddie stuffs another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

*

“Well, boys,” Ben stands, his glass of scotch in the air.  “I consider the case of Richie Tozier a rousing success.”

The others stand, too, easily agreeing.  “He was charming and still hilarious--” Stan begins.

“But way more appropriate,” Bev sighs, relieved.  “I can’t thank you guys enough.”

“Hey,” Mike says, turning to the producers.  “Where’d Eddie go?”

A shocked smile works its way across Bill’s face as he watches the television screen.  “G-guys…”

Richie, back at his new place after a triumphant night, has just answered the door.  He smiles, looking down at his guest on the other side. “I thought you got rid of them all.”

The cameras manage to squeeze into his foyer just enough to capture half of Eddie’s face--and the coopted  _ Home Alone  _ t-shirt.  

Eddie smirks.  “This one kind of grew on me.  Your turn to judge: how does it look?”  He does a spin.

Richie sighs, hands pushing messily through his painstakingly done curls.  “Seriously fucking cute.” He steps aside to let Eddie in, Eddie smiling tightly at the camera crew, obviously all too aware of their presence.  “I thought you’d be back at Fab Five HQ watching me do everything wrong and taking copious notes.”

“I was.”  Eddie shoves his hands into his back pockets.  “But then Ben said something about you being such a catch that you wouldn’t stay single for long, and I thought, ‘well… I’d better get over there fast.’”

Richie just looks at him for a long beat, speechless.  The cameras are poised for a close-up. Finally, he licks his lips, sputtering.  “ _ Jeez _ , Fireball.  You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

“ _ Richie _ .”

“...Yeah?”

“I like you.”

Richie swallows.  “I like you, too.”

Eddie giggles, one hand covering the nearest camera lens while he reels Richie in by the neck for a kiss.  


End file.
